Gravity
by Loreyulia
Summary: The Work always came first- John knew this when signing up as Sherlock's so called, "Side kick." There comes a time though, when enough is enough. With a new case on the horizon, tensions boil and boundaries are tested. A story in which two bodies are attracted to one another, even when life threatens to tear them apart.
1. Chapter 1: Hell or High Water

_**Disclaimer: I sadly do not own any rights to BBC's Sherlock, or to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's wonderful novels/short stories. All rights belong to Gatiss, Moffat, and who ever is in charge of reproducing Doyle's work. **_

_**A/N: Hello! I will open this by stating that this is my first solo venture into the Sherlock fanfiction fandom for writing. My girlfriend and I have a joint story floating around here and Archive of Our Own titled The Thinning Line, so if you're reading that sorry for the slow update. Redrosess100 and I had been out of contact for a while because of technical issues, and then I've been spending the rest of the time gorging myself on Sherlock fanfiction and finishing this chapter here. I don't expect this story to be any longer than 5 chapters, and I will work at updating as often as I can. This story will include a case of my own making, Sherlock and John misunderstandings, some kinky sex and fluff. I hope you all enjoy this, and look forward to everything else I have in store. **_

_**And a big thank you to my brother omniavincintamore and redroses100 for letting me bounce ideas off of you, and supporting me. I couldn't ask for better help :) **_

_**Gravity **_

Chapter One: Hell or High Water

_Gravity: the attraction that all bodies have for one another._

It had been a long, tiring day for John H. Watson. _Winter..._ oh God above how he hated this infernally cold, wet, soul-sucking season! Illnesses– colds, flu's, pneumonia, bronchitis– the laundry list of things he had to treat down at the clinic was mind boggling. However, his bad day did not start at the clinic– oh no, far from it; but wasn't that always the case, living with the World's only Consulting Detective? No, his awful, tiring, _dreadful_, day all started, the night before.

–

A case, another one of Sherlock bloody Holmes' infamous cases– that always seemed to pop up at the most inconvenient moments; like, while John was sitting down in his armchair, and halfway through some left over sheperd's pie from his favorite pub. "John! We have a homicide to investigate– would you please hurry?!" Sherlock was practically vibrating by the coat hook, hurriedly shucking on his Belstaff and twisting his blue scarf around his neck.

Watson, for the most part, was unaffected by his flatmate's brash, and _inconsiderate_ behaviour– this however, was toeing some invisible line the Detective was unaware of being drawn in the proverbial sand. "Oh sod off Sherlock, and let me finish my supper in _peace_! Lestrade can wait a few extra minutes."

"Yes, yes HE can wait, John– _I_ however, cannot! It's been _**weeks**_ since a case this promising has cropped up, and I've been bored out of my skull!" Sherlock was pacing now, like a caged panther; all sleek, and dark, and menacingly impatient.

Sighing heavily, and doing his best not to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, John tossed his Styrofoam container onto the coffee table and shot it a dirty look; as if it was offending him, rather than the insufferable git pacing the floors raw. "Let me grab my coat..." John grumbles, hauling his aching bones out of his warm, and regrettably comfortable armchair– he _really_ wasn't looking forward to the cold December chill swirling outside 221b. He made his way over, trying to will away the psychosomatic limp in his leg, and shucked on his leather coat; zipping it up with a fierce jerk to help alleviate some of his anger. "Well, lead the way," John huffed out, refusing to look Sherlock in the face; because the excitement he would see there, might make the doctor want to punch him.

"Excellent! Oh, this one feels promising– I can already tell." Sherlock practically _crowed_ his excitement, as he bounded down the stairs like an eager puppy greeting its master– throwing the door open with a ridiculous gusto that was just so _childish_ of a man his age.

The cold, snow-laced wind that rushed in and bit at John's nose and ears, made him want to turn on his heel, march straight back to his armchair and say, "Toss off Holmes," as he snapped a book open for a long sit in. John Watson however, did not do a single one of those things, as utterly _tempting_ as they were. No, he bit back a groan instead and braced himself– after all, winter was coming down full force, and he needed every last shred of his military resolve, to weather it.

–

The cab ride was tediously dull in John's honest opinion, as he thought of fuzzy blankets, and wonderful stories of ordinary men getting sucked into a London Below; of tea, and buttery biscuits. He wanted to sigh, as all of those indulgent fantasies came crashing down the moment Sherlock started jostling his ridiculously long legs up and down– looking like a little boy about to throw a tantrum. "We're almost there, Sherlock– so untwist your knickers, and have some _patience_."

"Patience is for the dull-witted John– an excuse to make the exceptional wait."

"Oh, well that makes it all better then, doesn't it?" John snapped, turning to look out the window, and huffing out a long suffering sigh. It wouldn't be the first, and definitely not the last time Sherlock's mouth made him want to invest in rolls of duct tape...

"You're upset..." it wasn't a question, oh no Sherlock Holmes rarely asked _questions–_ it was merely a statement founded in his cold, rational thought process. He had his face slightly tilted to the side, his ever changing eyes set in the subtlest narrow glance as he tried to deduce the situation that was located outside his comfort zone– emotions and sentiment.

John frowned, snorting derisively through his nose. "Figured that all out on your own, have you?" He knew he sounded like a tosser, that he shouldn't take his anger out on Sherlock when this was essentially the norm of their day-to-day lives; but, he just couldn't help it! This Winter weather was particularly damnable, and his middle-aged body _ached._

A brief flash of some unidentifiable emotion sparkled through the cyan eyes that observed John; the blue-green rippling into the color of shallow water on a sandy beach. Though as always, the emotion was gone as soon as it arrived- filtered out, and shuttered behind walls of ice. Sherlock opened his shapely lips, a million words sat at the precipice of his silver tongue; but for once in his life, he snapped his mouth shut, and turned away. The wall of ice grew thicker, and rose to un-scaleable heights.

By the time they reached the crime scene, the tension between the two men was taught as a bowstring. You could see it in the way John subtly tried to hide his reoccurring limp, and through the thinly veiled petulant glares Sherlock kept directing towards the doctor. Of course by now the entire NSY task force chalked it up to another "Lover's spat," between them.

Sherlock swooped in, his Belstaff fluttering behind him regally in the frigid breeze. John was close behind, though notably at a greater distance than usual. There was a momentary lapse in time, as the Consulting Detective crouched around the body of a woman; pocket magnifying glass at the ready while he examined, observed, and catalogued. "Tell me what you know about the victim," he muttered, seemingly to Lestrade.

"Well, she don't got no ID on her so– we've had to guess most of the details. We figure she's around mid-twenties, and judging by her appearance, a prostitute. 'Prolly just another case of a poor girl caught up in a bad world..." Lestrade's tone was heavy, as he sighed– the weight of it feeling like granite bricks sat upon his weary Atlas shoulders. John winced, a simple look of sympathy tinged by regret, passing over his careworn features.

"Wrong," Sherlock exclaimed, finally dragging his attention away from the body, and straightening up from his crouched position over it. When vacant, tepid stares greeted him, he grimaced and rolled his eyes. "Oh come on! I don't have the patience to deal with this— THINK!"

John frowned, and shot a glare towards the brick-housed buildings surrounding them, trying to quell his agitation over Sherlock's condescending behavior. "Right," he mumbled bitterly, " 'patience is for the dull-witted; an excuse to make the exceptional wait'... isn't that what you said, Sherlock?" It was a low, and childish blow, but in the moment John couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted to put the arrogant Detective in his place, just this _once._ Though he didn't feel quite as vindicated when Sherlock's cold, aristocratic face morphed into a look of pure hurt, and betrayal for all of three seconds; before it was hardened back into his ice-mask.

"Did the Freak really say that?" Donovan piped up, a tiny sneer quirking her lipsticked mouth– obviously she was enjoying the discord in what was once paradise between the two.

"Oi, come off it Donovan!" Lestrade barked, sending the thistle-soft woman a warning look. "Now Sherlock," he quickly turned his attention to the Detective when he was sure Sally wouldn't butt in, "please continue telling us why we are all so bloody wrong."

Sherlock waited a few moments, finger tips pressed firmly beneath the soft flesh under his jaw, before he began at lightening speed to reveal all the little things no one ever paid attention to. "The woman is at least 23, a secretary at a Banking Firm. She lives alone, no pets, no children– single from the looks of it. She doesn't live around here though– no, this is all staged... but why? See there's the important question."

He began to pace then, eyes cast about every which way– cold and sharp like silver daggers. The three surrounding him were utterly lost of course, not able to understand how Sherlock ever gleaned such vital information by just _looking _at some thing. After a minute of stunned silence, Lestrade was the first to speak up. "An' how do y'know she's still not a prostitute? An' well... all the other things. A gal can be well adjusted, and still moon light on the side for extra cash."

Sherlock stopped abruptly, meeting the three pairs of eyes glued to him. Lestrade's dark chocolate weary around the edges, Sally's chestnut assessing, and John's stormy blue pinched with obvious annoyance. He shouldn't have felt incredulously indignant after all this time, having to explain such simple observations– but, just in time he remembered the people he was dealing with, and held his tongue. They all seemed on edge with his presence tonight, and even _he_ knew when to tone it down.

"She is not a prostitute, and furthermore this whole thing is a ruse— meant to pull the wool over our eyes. Evidence. Proof– you all want to know how I observed this? Fine..." Sherlock motioned for them to follow, as he leaned back down to examine the body. "Look at her make-up, it's fresh– too can tell it's the first application, but wouldn't it have bled and run? She would be crying, before she was killed– especially since there are evident welts and bruises most likely inflicted by a riding crop or an instrument of the like...

"Yet the make-up is perfect, flawlessly so. The Killer obviously applied it after she was murdered. Next, look at her clothing– it's rather risqué, but notice how ill-fitted everything is? The blouse is too tight, awkwardly so and the skirt is not tight enough. It shows off quite a bit, but looks so unattractively disproportionate. A woman of that profession knows how to dress her body; accentuate the attractive parts, and simultaneously detract from the unattractive qualities.

"Her shoes are new as well, and look like they have never been worn. Any woman worth her grain of salt tests out a new pair of shoes in a more casual way. They would not go street walking at the risk of wobbling about, and getting blisters– no, these shoes are also too big for her feet as well. It's obvious to any one with half a brain, that all of this is a clever smoke and mirrors trick– the killer _wants_ us to think she is a prostitute. The question though, is why?"

There was deafening silence following Sherlock's quick deductions, and the detective began to pace once more; gaze set back into the far away recesses of his mind. "Yes, well— right." Lestrade muttered, cuffing his hand through his shortly cropped salt-n'-pepper hair in a tired gesture. "We'll see what we can dig up based on your descriptions Sherlock– comb any missing person's reports in the mean time. If some thin' does show, we'll give ya' a ring. You two should head on home, catch some sleep. God knows you'll need it if this case turns out to be more 'n it appears to be."

John nodded, a weary sort of resignation settling over him. He looked to Sherlock, who cut his frantic pacing short. "Send me a text the moment you find anything– this case is definitely a four at best, but I have a feeling it has the potential for that number to increase." Without more than a backwards glance, Sherlock began to stride away briskly.

Giving Lestrade and Donovan one last weak attempt at a smile, John mumbled, "good evening" before he trailed after his ridiculous flatmate.

As the Sherlock hailed a cab, and they piled in— an uncomfortable silence hanging between them in the back seat. John could only hope this case stayed within the realms of, "Barely interesting."

–

When they reached 221b some time after midnight, they tramped into the entryway without a word. The silence stretched between them like a yawning chasm; and John's patience was growing thinner and thinner with each passing minute. It felt like they were gum, being held at both ends and pulled in opposite directions, the middle stretching and stretching until it finally snapped in two. With a frustrated sigh, John watched Sherlock start his way up the stairs– and he just couldn't take it any more! "Are we going to talk about this?"

Sherlock paused mid-step, and turned to look down in what John always deemed his, "Imperiously detached," manner. "The case doesn't have enough significant evidence behind it to hash things out as of now. When Lestrade has more leads, I suppose we can talk about it then."

"You bloody know 'the case' is not what I'm talking about here, Sherlock!" John roared, hands cocked on his hips, and expression thunderous.

For the most part, Sherlock seemed surprised by John's outburst; until he schooled his features back into a more aloof expression. His cyan eyes flashed dimly in the low lighting of the stairwell, and he frowned. "What ever you need to get off your chest can wait until later. Right now I need to focus on this case, and I will not tolerate your boughts of sentiment getting in the way."

Before John had the chance to start in on what would promise to be 221b's most infamous row, Sherlock turned away once more, and stomped his way up the stairs. Moments later the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut echoed and reverberated through out the silent flat.

Running his hands through his hair, John couldn't help but sigh heavily and shook his head. This all left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he knew right then that in the following days until this case was solved, that everything between them was going to fester and rot. _How did it even turn to this?_ John wondered, as he quietly walked up the stairs and into the living room. Sure he had started the evening slightly irked at his flatmate for making him abandon his relatively relaxing evening— but, what led them to outright _attacking_ each other? With a defeated slump to his shoulders, John decided he'd sort it out in the morning if he had the time before work.

He made himself his nightly cup of tea to calm his frazzled feelings and retired to his room. After he drank his tea, and brushed his teeth, John pulled on his ratty sleep shirt and crawled into bed. Before finally falling asleep, he made a promise to himself to fix this mess with Sherlock tomorrow, come hell or high water.

_**E/N: I hope you enjoyed chapter one! I'll post more when I can, though after I get this first chapter up I'll be working on the next chapter for The Thinning Line, and then my Hobbit fiction All Shall Fade. This was unbeta'd and un-britpicked so sorry for any literary mishaps. If any one knows some one willing to britpick any further chapters, I'd appreciate the help. Until next time, cheers!**_


	2. Chapter 2: Words like Knives

_**A/N: Sorry it took so long to write this chapter out... I've had a lot of problems going on at home, and have been dealing with a lot of problems within myself. I honestly don't know what I would do without my wonderful girlfriend, who always motivates me and keeps me going. I hope you guys enjoy more JohnLock intensity :3 **_

**Gravity **

**Chapter Two: Words like Knives **

_Gravity– the attraction that all bodies have for one another. _

Pearl grey light saturated the tiny bedroom John H. Watson occupied within 221b Baker street. His alarm would not be going off for another twenty minutes at least, but restless sleep through the night, and an army instilled internal clock worked against him. With a muffled groan, John shifted around under his thick cream colored duvet, and the moss green afghan Mrs. Hudson had knitted for him as a Christmas gift last year. Opening his eyes after a few minutes, when he finally realized further slumber would be eluding him, John huffed out a heavy sigh. The backs of his eyes were stinging in protest, and his brain felt thick and sluggish like custard... he really needed more sleep.

It was soft and warm under the blankets, but the slight chilly nip that bit into his cheeks made him aware of how truly cold the Flat was. He silently hoped that Sherlock had remembered to pay the heating bill this month...

"Mmmngh," John groaned as he sat up, his bones creaking and cracking in a horrendous symphony that was accompanied by dull, percussive pain. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, and rubbed a few soothing circles in a shallow attempt at rousing himself further. _God, _how he wanted to just flop back into the comfortable embrace of sheets, and catch just a few hours more sleep. John had obligations to tend to though; and if he didn't go into work today, Sarah would never let him hear the end of it... and, if he was right in assuming that Sherlock had not paid the heating bill, John was sure they could use the extra money.

With that last bit of motivation, John hauled his weary body out of bed; his toes curling reflexively against the ice cold floor boards. A shiver wracked through his sturdy frame, and he grit his teeth against the freezing numbness that crawled up his legs while he searched for his grey house slippers. They were shoved haphazardly under the edge of his bed, and he slipped them on gratefully; sighing happily as warmth began to seep back into his cold toes. With a muffled yawn, John shuffled his way towards his bedroom door, pulling on his fluffy dressing gown on his way out.

He headed to the loo first, to relieve his full bladder. While washing his hands, John's storm-blue eyes surveyed his face in the mirror. There were sleep-deprived bruises under his hazy eyes, and his ashy blond hair stuck up at crazy angles from sleep. He smiled vaguely at his funny looking bed-head, but the smile didn't last long before it fell. He looked _old_, and the realization struck him hard in that moment; and did little to make him feel any better...

With a shake of his head, John looked away from his reflection– a bitter scowl twisting his mouth down. But he pushed those thoughts into a little box, and kicked it under the cabinet labeled "Self esteem issues," in his mind; before he yanked off his dressing gown and discarded it on the hook connected to the back of the bathroom door. John pulled his nigh shirt off, and then his pants and kicked them into a mini pile by the door.

Pulling open the shower curtain, John clumsily stumbled his way into the shower; shivering as his skin came into contact with the cold tiles. A few shaky inhales later, he twisted the knob to turn on the hot water, and braced himself for the few agonizing moments where the water ran cold before heating up. As steam began to gather, John eased his sore, tense muscles under the blistering, comforting spray. A soft groan of appreciation left his lips, and John leaned against the wall and let the water patter down upon his hunched shoulders and bended back. Slowly he felt his tension melt away, and he almost smiled from this small pleasure life always had for him now– after all, in the army showers, especially hot ones, were hard to come by.

After a few minutes of pure relaxation, John finally reached for his bottle of shampoo and squirted a decent sized puddle of the minty liquid into his cupped palm, before lathering it up into his short hair. He steadily worked the suds in, letting the tingly sensation fizzle against his scalp– it felt pleasant, and helped soothe his frayed emotions. Memories of last night– of his little spat with Sherlock– filtered in now that he finally remembered it. Why were they even arguing in the first place? Well, if you could call what transpired last night an argument... really it was just petty jabs at one another, and a few heated words before Sherlock stomped off to hsi room like a temperamental teenager.

This whole thing was ridiculous, John surmised with the kind of clarity one usually receives whilst covered in shampoo suds, and skin water-slicked. And well, sod it all, he was going to _do_ some thing about it as soon as he scrubbed his body down, and maybe have a god shower wank. With a decisive nod, John grabbed for his (embarrassingly feminine, but damn it he loved the scent) apricot and honey oatmeal body wash, that he may or may not have purchased in a local lotions boutique. A blissful sigh fluted through his parted lips as he worked the soap into his shower scrubbie– but, just as he started to slather the body wash into his skin, the water turned frigid.

With a high pitched yelp, John's body instinctively jerked forward and away from the ice cold spray. And though it saved him from the shower heads ice-needle wrath, it however did not save poor John Watson from smacking his forehead into the tile wall. A low, pained groan reverberated throughout the bathroom as the beleaguered man rubbed gently against his now tender, and most likely to bruise, wound. John glared weakly at the bathroom door through the remnants of steam; that was quickly dissipating like a long forgotten dream. He wished in that moment that his gaze could smolder through the wood, and the heat of it could travel towards his arse of a flatmate, and give him a mild first-degree burn.

Resignation settled in after a few moments, and with a sigh John erased all thoughts of a morning wank session from his mind, and tried to quickly finish his once enjoyable shower. He now had the, 'Pay the heating bill on time you daft prick,' conversation to deal with on top of everything else. In that moment, John just _knew_ today was not going to be his day...

—

By the time John finished up his hell-shower, and towel fluffed his hair and threw back on his dressing gown– he only had forty two minutes before he had to leave for work. Shuffling towards the kitchen, so he could put the kettle on for a well deserved cuppa, John found his flat mate swooping about the sitting room still wearing his powder blue pajama bottoms, and a thin white cotton night shirt. Sherlock's rich, dark chocolate curls were hopelessly sleep rumpled; one side pushed flat from where he must have laid on them all night, and the other side a wild, tangled mess of waves and kinks.

Vibrant, multi-colored eyes flicked briefly in John's direction; sliding up from the man's stormy blue gaze, to the faint blossoming bruise on his forehead. Sherlock halted his quick pacing and frowned for a millisecond before he said, quite suddenly, "Sorry about the heating bill not getting paid— forgot. I'll get that done as soon as we've solved this case! Now, if only Lestrade and his trained little monkeys would _hurry_..." The detective drifted off with a grumble, and picked back up his pacing.

For a moment, John was completely flummoxed. And then he was furious!" _Dear God... _he thought, with an intense disbelief making his eyes go wide, _the detective really was fucking __**thick**__ sometimes. _"Until the case is— Sherlock, that could take _**weeks!**_"

"And?" Sherlock replied rather blandly, not even looking over as he replied to John.

Some thing snapped inside the ex-army doctor in that moment; and he just couldn't hold his bottled up anger in any longer. " 'And?!' Sherlock Holmes, you are without a doubt the most selfish, asinine roommate on the face of this god forsaken planet! You care more about your bloody _puzzle's, _than the well being of your supposed 'only friend,' and quite frankly, I've had enough. So, if you want to continue our little detective duo, I suggest you pay the bloody heating bill while I'm at work– or so help me God, I'll be moving out by tonight!"

The Consulting Detective looked like he had been slapped; his eyes were wide and his shapely mouth hung open just a fraction. Quickly though, his expression darkened and he snapped back quick as a whip, "Fine. If that's what you want, then you can _leave._" He raised his pointed chin defiantly, his cyan eyes hard as diamonds, and accusing.

_Oh-ho— _John thought bitterly_— now wasn't this just icing on the cake? _"Well," he raised his voice slightly to the point of almost shouting, "now I see how much you _**really**_ value our friendship! You know, I was a sodding idiot to believe you could ever care about any one but yourself. Fine, be alone. Just know from experience, people don't like who they become when they shove everyone else away."

With that parting shot, John turned around and stomped back to his room with out letting Sherlock respond. Maybe if the detective chewed on that for a while, he would finally realize what an arse he could be.

Seventeen minutes later, John had finished getting dressed for work. Subconsciously he had thrown on his favorite, and most comfortable oatmeal colored Jumper and a pair of well worn jeans. On such a shite day as this, comfy clothes were always an essential tool in helping him feel better.

As he stormed back down into the sitting room, John barely gave his flatmate a second glance. Sherlock had finally stalled his frantic pacing, and now lay curled up on the couch; looking all the world like a moody teenager whose parents had just grounded him. He didn't allow himself to feel guilty over it this time though– no, John just scowled and turned to the stairwell. It was Sherlock's fault all this happened... at least, that's what he told himself as he stomped out of the flat, slamming the door shut in his wake.

—

John boarded a tube today to get to work, since it was faster then hailing a taxi. Though since he left early, and the tube was fast, he ended up with enough time to stop by his favorite Bakery near his work. John picked out a few chocolate covered scones, and ordered the biggest cup of tea on the menu. With his indulgent breakfast in tow, John walked into the Clinic, and into his office. He sat down at his desk, and was just biting into one of his scones, when Sarah walked in.

"Hey John, do you know where I could— christ," she trailed off, when she looked up from her clipboard, and took in John's appearance. "You look bloody awful, John. Is some thing wrong?" Her light brown eyes surveyed him worriedly; her pretty face pinched with concern.

"Huh– what? Oh, Sarah... sorry, what did you say?" John mumbled, because being distracted by insufferable bastards tends to make it hard to focus on anything else.

She frowned, because obviously there was some thing on John's mind; some thing big enough to have him distracted to the point of obliviousness. "I um... I asked if everything was alright? You don't look so good, John..."

"Ah," he replied a little sadly, "no, it's nothing very serious. There's no need to worry your pretty little head over me, but I do appreciate your concern, Sarah." John tried to smile reassuringly, but it came out as more of a grimace than anything. Which completely counteracted his statement, and proved to Sarah that there definitely _was_ something wrong with John Watson.

"Well," she said softly, "I'd wager it has something to do with that detective you're always mooning over. So spill it John, before the patient rush comes in, and you can get away with keeping it all bottled up inside yourself." Her tone was no-nonsense, and her face was deadly serious.

John sighed heavily through his nose, but couldn't help smiling a bit in amusement over Sarah's blunt demeanor. "I bloody well don't, 'moon,' after Sherlock. Quite the contrary, I'm very much fed up with him at the moment! I'm _tired_ Sarah... I'm tired of him always thinking of me last, when I always put him first. For Christ's sake, I've given up entire _**relationships**_ just to keep the sodding git happy!"

He laughed humorlessly, and cradled his heavy head in his hands. John was drained... how many times would he have to sacrifice his own happiness, before it was too much?

Sarah smiled sadly. "John, if it's any consolation, I think Sherlock is a fool for not treating you better. If I were in his shoes, if I had someone caring about me, as much as you care about him– I wouldn't take that for granted." She didn't say anything more; because she knew with John, the only one who could make himself see how wonderful a man he was, was the very same idiot who always hurt him. Instead she left John to his own brooding thoughts, and gave him time to put himself back together, before all hell broke loose.

—

It had been a long, tiring day for John H. Watson. A never ending stream of patients seemed to flow into his office, because of course to top it all off, it had to be _cold _season...

He was home now though, and even if he was sure things between Sherlock and himself would still be tense, he was grateful that the day was almost behind him. John stopped right outside the snow covered footsteps that led up to the shiny black door, with gold numbers flashing 221b dully in the lamplight. He breathed deep, and exhaled shakily; this was it, the moment of truth. Either he would be settling in for another comfortable night in Baker Street, or he would be leaving this all behind for good. And though it was a silly ultimatum, Sherlock paying the heating bill before he returned from work, it stood for so much more than that.

It would show him that Sherlock listened to him, and cared about what he had to say.

With bolstered resolve, John yanked open the door to the flat and walked carefully into the entryway; stamping snow off his boots before walking up the stairs. He half expected to see Sherlock still curled up on the couch, sulking. He also expected to not feel so chilled walking into the sitting room. All the lights were off though, which meant Sherlock wasn't home. Out of reflex, John checked his mobile, and sure enough, there was a text from Sherlock.

_Lestrade found a lead on the missing person. _

_Come to Bart's as soon as you can– it's important. _

_-SH _

For the briefest of moments, John wanted to toss his mobile against the nearest wall, and just scream every obscenity known to man at the top of his lungs. But he had to be reasonable– there was just no sense in letting a poor girl's family suffer with unanswered questions, just because he and Sherlock were falling apart. Even though the detective obviously didn't get around to paying the heating bill, for now John could let it slide. After all, there were bigger problems at play in the universe right now– and he could deal with another night of extra blankets, and tense muscles.

Allowing himself one last moment of semi-peace, John turned and tramped his way back out into the ice-slicked sidewalks of London; hoping beyond all hope that this case wasn't about to get exponentially more interesting.

_**~T.B.C.~ **_


End file.
